Scales: Of Justice (Broken But ... Mending Book 3) (6 page)

Paris wasn’t about that. There was an edge of desperation to her actions. As if she was afraid that it wasn’t going to happen. That whatever good could come out of this workshop would pass her by. That was not something she could live with. For her, it was time for change, any way she could get it.

As the last phrase slipped through his mental preamble, he realized that was the one that fit. There was an edge of righteousness to her actions. She deserved this. She’d worked for it. Been through a lot to get it, and now was afraid it wasn’t there for her.

Or maybe she wanted to deserve it, but inside maybe she didn’t really believe it. That’s why the desperation.

He wondered if Jenna knew. That was one cagey woman. The insights she had into people’s character was something he’d never seen and Weaver wondered, given his own blocks, if he ever would.

Paris made him feel a little ashamed. He didn’t give a damn about moving forward. The place he was at right now was safe and he wanted to stay there.

Wow.
Wincing, he figured that maybe they were a great pair after all.

He didn’t want to move forward, and she couldn’t stay where she was.

And they still had no plan of action.

Maybe that all related back to the transformation lesson again. Maybe they’d turn around and it would have happened at that inner level while they weren’t looking. He’d love that. To move from where he sat to another major step without really knowing what he’d done, but in truth, life wasn’t like that. These steps were painful. Huge and difficult. That’s why he wasn’t interested in going to another one – at least not right now.

Paris was too desperate. He understood that something drove that desperation, but it made it hard to watch her. Great. Of course he had a whole week of being with her. Like it or not, Jenna had a reason for everything she did. And he doubted this pairing was any different.

And why the hell did Paris have to be so interesting?

A relationship with someone in therapy was a bad idea. Look where the last one had left him.

Alone and divorced.

There was no way he was going through that again.

P
aris bolted down
the hallway toward Jenna. It seemed since she’d arrived this week she hadn’t been able to walk anywhere. Something was always sending her forward at top speed, trying to get to where she was going and getting precisely nowhere. It was making her desperate and crazy.

“Jenna, we need help with this project.”

Jenna stopped in the hallway, her gaze amused but calm. “Do you?”

“Yes.” Paris nodded vigorously. “We do.”

“We?”

Paris glanced behind her. Damn Weaver, where are you? “Sorry, I thought Weaver was coming to see you, too.”

“Hmmm.” Jenna studied Paris. “What part do you need help with?”

“The beginning.” Paris hated the crippling feeling inside. That need to get it right. “I can’t start,” she said, then corrected her statement. “I don’t know where to start.”

“Did you come up with a theme?”

“Too many of them. Black and White. Right or Wrong. Justice. Transformation. That seems to be a major trigger point for both of us.”

“Right and wrong, black and white, and Justice could be pretty much the same theme, so all of them could work.”

Paris could feel the hot words bubbling up. “I don’t want something that
could
work. I want the
right
one. I need this to work,” she cried. And then she gasped, falling silent, shocked at her own words.

After a long moment, she muttered, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Jenna said in a sober tone. “I think that was something that needed to come out for a long time.” Jenna shifted the books in her arms and studied her closer. “This is an important issue. Remember, desperation often pushes away what you need most.” She looked doubtful for a long moment, and Paris remembered the conversation where she’d damn near begged to be let into the seminar. Desperate then, too.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she said, “I don’t mean to be.”

“No, but it’s that very need inside you that needs to be addressed. You can’t heal if you can’t let go. So what do you need to let go of so you aren’t so desperate to move forward?”

“Fear.” The word popped out instantly. “Fear of not getting the same benefit out of the seminar that my brother did. Fear of …” she took a deep breath and let it fly. “Failing. Of once again not being good enough. Not good enough to be loved. To love. Being so horrible, so bad, so much a failure that no one will ever love me.”

Her voice broke around her, the words splintering like icicles. Each hitting her skin like tiny pinpricks and making her bleed, and still the pain boiled over. “I tried so hard to be good. And I was never able to be good
enough
. He still beat on me every chance he got.”

Tears flooded her eyes as the memories flooded her mind. This was not the place to break down. Not here. Not like this. Panicked to get away, she turned and ran.

Up the two flights of stairs, then down the hallway. The carpet in front of her was a blur. Instinct led her home. She made it to her room and got it unlocked, but it was a struggle. Moving at all was difficult. Inside her head, all she could hear were the words –
another failure.

“Easy, Paris. You’re fine. You’re here at the hotel. No one else can see you.”

Paris stiffened. It was Weaver.

Then she felt strong arms around her. She cringed, an instinctive reaction, still caught in the gray shadows of the memories.

His hands dropped away.

With tears in her eyes she waited, a sense of fatalism in her heart, knowing the blows that would come. He’d hit her next. Knock her to the ground and kick her until she couldn’t get up again. She shuddered, feeling the film of sweat coating her skin. The waves of greasy pain ready to rise from her gut. And still nothing. Then she heard him beside her.

She shuddered again.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he whispered. “Never would I hit you.”

The words rolled over her in a wave of disbelief as she shifted through time from her childhood to the seminar and the hallway where she stood like an idiot. Eyes shut tight, her body swaying in reaction, feeling flushed with realization. Oh Lord. It was Weaver next to her, not her father. Paralyzed, only a sob escaped.

Once again he wrapped his arm around her, turned her around, and tugged her up against his chest. She went stiff with fear. But this time he didn’t let go. Her heart thumped. She knew better than to fight. But he just held her. Gently.

The gentleness was her undoing. The tears that burned her eyes burst forth and tumbled free, the waterfall gaining momentum as it poured down her cheeks and soaked his shirt.

Emotions washed through her, the onslaught so hard and fast, she couldn’t move.

The primary emotion that beat as loudly as her heart was disbelief.

It had been a long time since she had had an episode like that. She’d hoped to never be crippled by those memories again. Somehow she’d failed. Somehow they’d snuck in from behind, waiting for her to fall to pieces.

And of course she had. With Jenna – her very words releasing the flood she’d worked so hard to keep dammed up.

Caught in the maelstrom, she didn’t notice the soothing touch up and down her back for a long time. It was Weaver. Being nice. The only other person to treat her like this was Sean. Her beloved brother. Without him, she wouldn’t have survived her childhood. She knew he felt that she’d returned the favor but she hadn’t – not really.

“Feeling better?” Weaver’s voice was deep…clogged.

Not wanting to show him her puffy face, she frowned and looked down. But he wouldn’t let her hide. He tucked a finger under her chin and slowly lifted her face toward him.

She tried to pull free. He let her.

“You shouldn’t hide your emotions, you know. They are honest and therefore beautiful,” he said in such a pensive voice she couldn’t take umbrage with him, but his words did startle a laugh out of her.

“Maybe honest, but also downright ugly.” She pulled out of his arms and dashed into the bedroom then the bathroom to the side. There she stared into the big mirror. Red splotchy skin and eyes too big for her face. It went along with the equally large mouth. But her eyes glowed. Tear-rinsed and shiny, she wondered if the release of emotion might have made them look better.

“Maybe I should cry more often,” she muttered. “Not.” She took a moment to use the facilities then used cold water to rinse her face, hoping to ease back the puffiness. When she figured she’d waited long enough for him to have left, she opened the door and walked out.

He stepped up beside her.

Shit.

*

“No, don’t avoid
me, please.”

She turned her face away.

He sighed. “You look fine now.”

Laughter bubbled out from Paris’s mouth. Weaver was delighted to realize it was real. He grinned. “Okay, let me amend that. You look great for having just been through a crying jag.”

“That’s better, I suppose,” she muttered. “My face always looks so horrible when I’ve been crying.”

“Well, it’s over and time to fix the rest.” At her honest smile, he added. “I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me what brought tha—”

Before he could finish she was shaking her head, stopping his question. “No.”

He lifted his shoulders in surrender. “I was just hoping to not trigger it again.”

“You didn’t,” she said. “Jenna did.”

“Oh.” Well, that’s what she was supposed to do, and likely it was a private matter that he was never going to know about. Damn it. Although he’d planned to stay detached and separated from everyone attending, he was finding that wasn’t likely going to happen any time soon – not from Paris.

She wiped her eyes and said in a muffled voice, “I think I’ll stay in my room.”

“Or we can go back to the seminar and get through the afternoon session like the trooper you are.”

Her smile was still watery but it was normal. “I look like a mess.”

“And you won’t be alone. That’s why we all came, remember?” He studied her, watching her gaze narrow and turn direct.

“Is that why you came?” she challenged. “I thought it was for your stupid publication.”

“You forget, I’m damaged too. Whether this was my choice or not or whether the seminar works isn’t the issue. One can’t be here in a setting like this, with healing going on, without having change happen within your own psyche. Maybe I didn’t come prepared with a big issue I was hoping to overcome, but I’m going to come up against issues regardless. Life is like that.”

He might have forgotten that point too along the way but being here now like he was, watching her, dealing with the repercussions of his report, being around growth, well, he wouldn’t be able to escape. He remembered that now. It really didn’t matter. He’d move forward one painful step at a time – whether he liked it or not.

T
he afternoon seminar
moved quickly, being mostly group activities. They were easier to do and allowed Paris to pull back inside her shield so the world wasn’t scraping her raw. There was a lot she could do to protect herself.